


one for sorrow, two for joy

by Edgebug



Series: harpy!Oswald 'verse [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Jim Gordon Has A Crisis, M/M, Magical Realism, Wingfic, harpy!Oswald, misunderstandings galore, weird bird customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edgebug/pseuds/Edgebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The harpy is curled up on the couch, eyes shut, already asleep. His breathing is slow and steady and Jim takes a second to really look at him. His wings are large and beautiful, white-and-black like a magpie. Jim has never really understood the allure behind harpies before; he's never been one for dirty mags with illustrations and photos full of voluptuous women with spread wings and painted talons. But he can't deny that there's a certain otherworldly draw to the creature curled on his sofa, a kind of alien beauty that Jim's never seen anywhere else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one for sorrow, two for joy

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is. The harpy!Oswald fic I've been working on for an embarrassingly long amount of time. But. Yeah. Here goes nothing. //hides
> 
> ("One for Sorrow" is a nursery rhyme about magpies. So that's a thing.)

It's nearly midnight and Jim's just getting home, it's been an awful day and he just wants to get in bed, get in bed and sleep for a million years.

He has to walk home tonight. His car is in the shop. Work, the police station, is only a mile and a half away from his place, though. Not terrible. Not optimal, either, but not terrible. His apartment is kind of a piece of shit, nobody would fight him on that one. It's a piece of shit, but it's his. One bedroom is enough.

Walking alone at midnight would freak him out a lot more if he wasn't carrying a gun. He's a police officer. Everyone knows he's armed and nobody's going to fuck with him. Not only that but it's late enough so that even most gangsters have gone to sleep, or at least retreated into their hidey-holes for the evening.

Jim's maybe a block away from his house when he hears the noise from a side alley; a loud clanging, like a trash can getting knocked over, and then there's a thump and a cry of pain before more noisy rattling happens and Jim rushes toward the sound before he can stop himself.

“Hey! Hey, is everything--” he starts right before he sees what's happening. It's a dead-end alley between two buildings and there's a fucking harpy on the ground, scrambling back toward the wall at the sight of Jim; he stands and tries to jump, to take to the air—he flaps his wings and cries out in clear pain as he collapses back to the ground and Jim's never seen a harpy in so much goddamn distress. “Hey! Hey, hey, it's okay,” he says, holding up both hands. _“Easy!”_

The harpy finally gives up on trying to fly; he huddles against the wall, wings trembling and chest heaving. His feathered ears twitch; his black hair hangs limp in his eyes and his crest is flat against his head. It's then that Jim notices just how crooked his left wing is, just how gingerly he's holding it. Jim's not too familiar with harpy medicine, but the wing definitely looks injured; sprained, maybe broken.

Jim approaches slowly, carefully, hands still where the harpy can see them. “I'm a policeman, a detective,” he says slowly, “I'm here to help you,” he adds, and the harpy's wild blue eyes fix on his own.

It occurs to Jim that he should probably call for backup. Wild harpies are fucking dangerous and this guy is clearly no exception—one look at his massive talons can tell Jim that much—but he's hurt and he's skinny and Jim will risk getting slashed with those talons to help him. He's a policeman. Helping is his job, and sometimes it's a dangerous one. He signed up for it.

He steps closer, slowly. “I can take you to my place for the night, and then in the morning we can get you to a doctor, okay? There's a good avian vet that does work for the police force all the time.” Jim wishes there was an all-night hospital for harpies, but no emergency room is going to know how to treat a broken wing. “Is that okay?”

The harpy eyes him uneasily, pressing a little harder against the wall as if hoping he can melt through it.

“I live really close by,” Jim says, “maybe a block, please,” he says, and when he steps forward again the harpy doesn't shy away. In fact, the hobbles closer by a few steps, toward Jim. “Can you walk? Is your leg hurt?” Jim asks. The harpy is limping, and he nods in response to Jim.

Jim swears under his breath. “Is it okay if I pick you up? I'll be careful. Would that help?”

He stares at Jim for a long moment, then he looks down, gives a sigh, and nods. “Okay,” Jim says. “C'mon. Up you come.”

The harpy is light. Jim picks him up with one arm under his knees and one arm behind his shoulders; his wing is slung awkwardly around Jim, but it works. It's disturbing how light he is. Harpy biology, though; hollow bones for better flight. Means they're incredibly airworthy but terribly fragile, which is why their self-defense is so well-developed. Those talons in place of feet are razor-sharp and Jim has a healthy respect for them.

It really isn't long to Jim's apartment, and after a while he's forced to set the harpy down so that he can unlock the front door. He pushes it open and the small bird-creature hobbles inside.

“You can sit down on the couch, it's okay,” Jim instructs when he sees the poor guy standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Gratefully he nods and sets himself gingerly down on the couch.

Jim has a fucking wild animal in his house. God, he has the worst judgment. He pulls out his phone as he disappears into his bathroom and quickly googles whether or not Percocet is poisonous to harpies; Google says that it's perfectly fine, and Jim digs some out of his medicine cabinet, brings it out to the harpy with a glass of water.

“I've got some painkillers left from when I had some dental work done,” he explains as he comes back out to the living room. “This should help your wing and leg, at least for a bit.” He holds out the glass of water and pill. “Can you take pills?”

The harpy shoots him a look that reads _duh_ , and takes the glass of water and pill. Harpies have wings where humans have arms, but they _can_ hold things, thanks to the odd thumb-and-index-finger like setup at their wing's wrist joint; long and clawed but definitely capable of grabbing. Probably also capable of gutting fish or attacking intruders. Jim swallows only a little nervously; he's seen harpies this close before, but not often. Again: a healthy respect for those claws. He's seen what they can do.

The winged man takes the pill and drinks the water down before setting it gently on the coffee table. “Shit. You've got to eat something or that'll tear up your stomach. What do harpies even _eat_ ,” Jim mumbles, once again checking Google.

The internet gives him a quick crash course on harpy dietary needs (thank you, Wikipedia), and apparently in the wild they'll eat anything they can get their talons on. Well, that's convenient. Jim roots around in the fridge for anything remotely acceptable and comes back with a tunafish sandwich.

“Eat up. You'll puke otherwise with that Percocet in you.”

The harpy wolfs the sandwich down with alacrity, then stares wordlessly up at Jim with this soft sort of look; a thank-you.

“All right,” Jim says quietly. “It's fine. Um, I'm going to turn it in for the night, okay? My room's right down the hall, on the left. Bathroom on the right.” The harpy nods. “I'll be right back. I'm gonna go get you a blanket and a pillow and stuff.”

Jim scurries to his bedroom and once he's there he pauses, once again. There is a wild animal in his house. He just gave it painkilers and a tuna sandwich. He takes a deep breath. This is no different than rescuing a dog or cat. He's done that plenty of times before, God knows.

He pulls a thick quilt (his mom made it for him a long, long time ago—one of those things he just can't get rid of) and an extra pillow out of his linen closet and carries them back out to the living room. “I hope this'll work for you, if you get cold then--”

He pauses.

The harpy is curled up on the couch, eyes shut, already asleep. His breathing is slow and steady and Jim takes a second to really look at him. His wings are large and beautiful, white-and-black like a magpie. Jim has never really understood the allure behind harpies before; he's never been one for dirty mags with illustrations and photos full of voluptuous women with spread wings and painted talons. But he can't deny that there's a certain otherworldly draw to the creature curled on his sofa, a kind of alien beauty that Jim's never seen anywhere else.

Jim unfolds the quilt and drapes it over the sleeping figure. The harpy's eyes open, blinking sleepily up at Jim, and he gives a tiny, questioning chirp.

“Shh, it's fine,” Jim whispers. “Go back to sleep. It's fine, I promise.” The harpy nods and uses the wrist talons of one wing to pull the blanket tighter around himself; he chirps again softly and closes his eyes.

Jim flickers a smile and sets the pillow down on the coffee table for in case the harpy wants it later. “Hey,” he says quietly, and one of the harpy's eyes open to fix on him. “What's your name?”

The harpy's lips curve ever so slightly upward, the first time Jim's seen anything other than a worried, tense expression on his face. “Os-Os-Oswald,” he stutters, and Jim smiles.

“Oswald,” he murmurs. “All right.”

A finger talon pokes out from under the covers and points at Jim; Oswald's eyebrows raise like he's asking a question.

“Oh! Oh, my name,” Jim says, “I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. It's Jim. Jim Gordon.”

Oswald blinks a few times, opens his mouth and tries to form the sounds. “Juh—juh--” He struggles on the J sound and decides to just move on to the second word. “Gord'n,” he says. “ _Gordon_.” Then he grins, apparently proud that he got the name right. His ear-feathers twitch as he snuggles back down against the couch, visibly pleased with himself.

“Yeah, there you go,” Jim says with a small laugh. “Good night, Oswald.” Oswald chirrups and closes his eyes and Jim turns, switches off the lights and heads into his bedroom.

Jim closes his door and leans against it, closing his eyes and running a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, what am I doing,” he mumbles to himself. Shit. He has work. He has work tomorrow and he's not going to be able to show up on time because he has to take a fucking harpy to the goddamn vet. He lets his hand drop to his side. This is just getting better and better and yet he can't bring himself to feel upset about it.

He digs his phone out of his pocket, flips it open and speed-dials Harvey. It rings four entire times before Harvey picks up and Jim hears him swear loudly into the microphone. “Well, good evening to you too,” Jim says.

“Jim, there'd better be a damn good reason you're calling me at twelve-thirty at night. I was asleep,” Harvey snaps, “Do you realize how long it's been since I went to sleep before midnight?”

“Knowing you, probably never. Look, it is actually a good reason. I'm gonna be a few hours late to work tomorrow.”

There's a loud groan. “Jesus, Jim, you want me to question Bodie's mom alone?! Why?”

“Uh.” Jim sighs and runs his free hand through his hair, kicks off his shoes and takes a step toward his bed. “You're not gonna believe this. I found a harpy on the way home.”

Harvey's entire demeanor instantly changes. “Holy shit, you dog! Enjoyin' some wing meat, eh?!”

Jim sits down heavily on the bed. “No! No. God, Harvey, don't be disgusting, he can't even talk.”

“I hear harpies are really—what?” There's a pause. “He can't talk?”

“No. And his wing's hurt. I found him in an alley on the way home. I'm taking him to the avian vet in the morning, all right? I'll show up to work but it's going to be a little later than usual.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no problem. I'll cover you. I can handle the interrogation alone.” A pause. “Is he hot, though?”

Jim lets out a puff of breath. “Harvey...”

“I'm just asking! You're kind of living the dream, man. You found a harpy on the street and it's not rippin' out your throat? Damn.” Harvey gives an incredulous chuckle. “Sleep tight, bud.”

“Shut up, Harvey,” Jim says, hoping the roll of his eyes is audible, “and thanks for covering me.”

Harvey laughs again and hangs up and Jim flops onto the bed.

 

-

 

When Jim heads into the living room at six the next morning, Oswald is still asleep. Jim needs to go get his car from the shop; he considers leaving a note but then it occurs to him that maybe Oswald can't read. He probably can, Jim thinks, but if he can't, would he panic if he woke and found Jim missing?

Jim gets another Percocet, half a peanut butter sandwich, and a glass of water before he approaches Oswald and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, hey,” he says quietly as Oswald jerks awake with a loud, shocked cry. “It's just me. Just Jim.”

“Gord'n?” Oswald slurs.

“Yeah. It's me. I just wanted to let you know that I'm getting my car from the shop, okay? It had a busted brake and—nevermind. I just have to go get it and then I can drive you to the doc. Okay?”

Oswald's feathery crest is lying back down against his head as he relaxes. His ear tufts flap agreeably in response, and he nods. “Do you want another painkiller?” Jim asks. “It's been six hour since your last one. You're due for another.”

Oswald nods quickly and takes the pill, and Jim marvels at how good Oswald is at masking pain. He supposes it's a defense mechanism. If you're visibly sick or in pain, you're an easy target. “And here.” He holds out the sandwich to Oswald. “I'm serious about Percocet ripping up your stomach. You're _gonna_ throw up if you don't eat.”

Oswald crooks half a smile and takes the sandwich, nodding gratefully. He's done with it fast and then he lies back down, gingerly draping his wing over himself. His talons are curled up so that the sharp edges don't damage Jim's couch. It's... sweet.

Jim kicks his shoes on and grabs his wallet. “I'll be back in half an hour, okay? If you're still hungry you can have whatever's here, okay?”

Jim waits for Oswald's chirp of acknowledgement before he leaves the apartment.

 

-

 

The drive back to his complex is quick, and the ride to the vet is a piece of cake, though it's a bit of a struggle to get Oswald into the car comfortably. He ends up lying on his stomach in the back seat with his broken wing contorted in a way that doesn't hurt.

Oswald seems nervous and Jim wonders if he's ever been to see a doctor before. The harpy has clothes, at least ripped denim shorts, so did he... have an owner? Before? Jim shakes himself.

Oswald jumps when the nurse calls his name, and Jim rests a hand between his shoulderblades. “It's okay. I'll be with you,” he says quietly, and Oswald nods and stands carefully up.

The vet's name is Leslie Thompkins and her eyes widen when she sees Oswald. “Oh,” she says on a sigh, “god, you poor thing. Come here.” She motions for Jim, and Jim lifts Oswald up onto the examination table. Oswald squeaks at the feel of the cold metal, and the doctor apologizes. “I know, I know, I'm sorry—lemme take a look at that wing, okay?” She gently touches the broken wing and looks at Jim. “What's his history? What happened?”

“I found him last night in an alley,” Jim says, “I kept him overnight and... here we are.” A pause. “Gave him two Percocet and a sandwich.”

Oswald cries out when the doctor moves his wing the wrong way. “Yep. Probably a break,” she sighs. “I'd like to get an x-ray on you, to make sure. Okay?” Oswald blinks, then nods, and a nurse comes in to escort Oswald off. Oswald goes, reluctantly but he does; and Jim resists the urge to follow.

Doctor Thompkins fixes Jim with a long look. “You seriously just found him, Jim? C'mon. With our history, you can tell the truth.”

“I'm telling you the truth, Lee. I found him. Last night.”

She holds his gaze for a long time then she sighs and nods. “I believe you,” she says. “Always could read you like a book. You're not gonna keep a pet harpy.”

“Hell no. I used to bust people for keeping harpies before I moved to homicide. You know that.”

She chuckles, then grows serious again. “You're not stupid. I'm sure it's occurred to you that he was probably someone's pet, Jim,” she asks sharply. “Harpies are rarely so docile. And he obviously understands English perfectly well.”

“Well--” The thought makes Jim's stomach turn. God, what did they do to him? “Well, he hasn't exactly been chatty, so I have no idea. The only thing he's said since he's shown up is his own name.”

Lee frowns as she thinks. “Give him time. Either he'll start talking or he's just nonverbal.” She tilts her head and regards Jim for a moment. “While we wait, do you have any questions about his care?”

“His care—you're not keeping him here?”

The doctor looks shocked a moment then actually laughs. “No! No, Jim, I most certainly can not, not even for a handsome ex-boyfriend. We're full to capacity here. You're going to be watching over him until he heals up.”

Jim groans and runs his hands over his face. “Then yeah, okay, great, I guess I'm a bird babysitter. What the hell do I feed him?”

“Their digestive systems are very similar to ours,” she replies, leaning against the table, “but they do require more calcium. Their bones are hollow and need to stay as strong as they can get, and their talons require it for upkeep as well.”

Jim's about to ask another question when the nurse leads Oswald back in. Jim helps him onto the table and the nurse hands the doctor the x-rays. “Well, the good news is, his leg's fine. Sprained ankle, probably,” she sighs. “But the wing? Broken. Right there, near the shoulder. I'm going to splint this for you, okay?” she says, speaking to Oswald slowly. “First I have to set it and it's going to hurt, but I need you to not claw me to pieces, okay?”

Oswald seems amused.

“And because you might automatically claw me to pieces, instincts and all, we're gonna need to tie your talons, okay?”

Oswald's eyes widen and he stares back at Jim. “Gordon!” he chirps, worried, and Jim steps closer.

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” he reassures. “It's okay. I promise. They aren't gonna do anything bad to you, Os, okay?”

Oswald brushes Jim with his good wing. “Gordon,” he mumbles, and eyes the nurse warily, but he allows her to hold his talons shut with cable ties.

“Okay. Hold still, mister,” Lee says, and straightens out Oswald's wing.

Oswald gives a noise like a screech owl, a shrill scream of pain and his good wing flaps automatically but he doesn't wrench away from Lee and his legs (tied talons and all) stay perfectly still. “That's it. That's it, honey,” she sweet-talks him, quickly affixing a splint to the broken bone, folding the wing and wrapping it in bandages as best as she can. It knocks Oswald's feathers out of whack but Oswald doesn't complain.

Jim doesn't want to wait for the nurse to cut the cable ties. He pulls his Victorinox out of his pocket and snips the ties himself. “All right,” Lee says, stepping back. “You'll be good as new as soon as that heals. Come see me again in three weeks.”

Oswald holds both wings close to his body. “Gordon,” he says plaintively, eyes staring up at him pleadingly.

“I know, I know, buddy, give me one second and we'll go home.” He looks at the doctor. “Lee, can we get him a script for more painkillers or something? He's going to clean me out of Percocet.”

“There'll be a bottle of codeine waiting for you at the front desk when you pay,” she says, “it's more effective in harpies.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He reaches out and carefully helps Oswald down from the table; the harpy winces a bit and leans heavily against Jim. “It was good to see you. C'mon, Oz.”

“Good to see you too, Jim,” Lee replies with a soft smile, and that's that.

 

-

 

“So where's your harpy?” Harvey asks the second he sees Jim. “Did you have a good night?”

“Jesus Christ, I haven't been doing anything untoward, I'm just helping him out! And he's—he's at home, okay? I took him to Doctor Thompkins this morning, she splinted his wing.” Jim looks over the papers that have been dropped on his desk.

“So you're keeping him?”

“No! I'm--” Jim groans. “I'm providing him shelter until he heals. Then he can do whatever he wants. Now can we please get to work?”

“Touchy, touchy,” Harvey teases, but does let Jim go. “Got a lead on Bodie. He was last seen...”

 

-

 

Jim brings home take-out pizza and calcium pills.

“Oswald,” he asks after Oswald's wolfed down a slice and crunched a pill (Jim shudders; who the hell crunches vitamins? Oswald, apparently) between his teeth, “how did you end up in that alley?”

Oswald freezes for a second and then grabs another slice of pizza; he makes a questioning noise and pastes an innocent, confused look on his face.

“Hey. Hey, no, I know you understood that,” Jim says, rolling his eyes. “You can't fake me out that easy.”

Oswald slumps; he looks vaguely distressed and ignores him, and Jim sighs.

“How about I ask you yes-or-no questions and you just shake or nod your head? Would that be easier?”

Oswald pauses, then nods.

“Okay. Okay, good. First things first, I guess. Did someone hurt you?”

There's a long moment before Oswald nods. Jim continues. “Okay, and... did that someone think they were your owner?”

Another nod. “God, Oswald. I'm so sorry.” Jim runs a hand over his face, lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. “So you escaped?"

Another nod. Oswald's eyes are fixed solidly on the coffee table. Jim knows there's a lot more to the story but Oswald doesn't want to talk about it, or can't talk about it, and... Jim's run into kids and adults in his line of work, people who've gone temporarily mute after intense trauma.

Oswald is starting to shake, and Jim decides that maybe abandoning this line of questioning is a good idea. “Hey, okay. You wanna watch a movie?”

Oswald finally looks at him and chirps his assent, and Jim marks that as a win. He gets up and moves toward the shelf that holds his DVD collection. He's only just started thumbing through them when he hears Oswald.

He makes a strangled noise in his throat before the word forms. “Star,” he manages, then makes a wide gesture with his good wing and makes a series of sounds—an explosion, then 'pew pew!' laser noises--

“Star Wars?” Jim asks with a grin. “Is that it?” Oswald nods excitedly, looks up at Jim with an expression that can only be described as hopeful; his crest shakily extends and Jim laughs and says “Oh, I like you. Yeah, buddy, okay. Star Wars it is.” He locates A New Hope and slides it into the DVD player before settling onto the couch a respectable distance from Oswald.

Yep. He's definitely had an owner before—or at least lived with a human—if he knows what Star Wars is. The opening text crawls up the screen and Oswald chirrups his thanks and scoots up close to Jim—if Jim didn't know better, he'd call it snuggling. By the time the opening crawl is over, Oswald's draped his good wing over Jim's lap and nestled firmly against his side, and Jim can't really deny that this is cuddling, anymore.

Oh, hell. What's wrong with it? So what, he's cuddled up on the couch watching Star Wars with a harpy. A wild animal who's surely going to leave Jim the moment he's healed. And—and that's good, right? That's good. He'll leave and be free. He'll find his people and be free and Jim will be conveniently, conveniently alone again.

It's halfway through the movie when Oswald makes a tiny noise and nuzzles a bit against Jim's shirt and Jim looks down, sees that Oswald's eyes are closed. He's asleep, and a strange rush of affection washes over Jim. He probably should pause the movie and just go to his own room, let Oswald sleep, but...

...Nah. What's the harm in just staying here with him til the movie's over?

 

-

 

“I swear to god, Harvey, if you ask me about Oswald I'm going to scream.” Jim throws the car into gear and pulls from the station parking lot.

“You named him?! Oh, god, you're in deep.”

“No! I didn't name him, he told me his name!”

Harvey squints at him. “I thought you said he couldn't talk,” he says accusingly.

“He can say a few words,” Jim defends, “now that's all we're going to say about him, okay?”

“Fine, fine. Up to you, chief.” Harvey rolls his eyes. “Turn left up at the light.”

“Why're we going to this club, anyhow?” Jim pulls to a halt at the stoplight; it's a quick light and he makes the left turn as Harvey instructed.

“I've got an old friend who probably knows a little about Bodie's history. She'll shoot straight.” Harvey nods. “Go straight through the next light.”

“So you've got a history with her?”

“Well...”

 

-

 

The club looks like a decent place, at least at first glance. It's mostly empty during the day, of course, only a few people sitting at tables with drinks. Still, the hairs on the back of Jim's neck stand up. Harvey looks perfectly comfortable as he speaks to the bartender, though, so Jim tamps down the feeling of danger roiling in his skull.

The bartender disappears. “The place looks nice, I haven't been here in a while,” Harvey says cheerily, “should come down here for fun, someti—ah! Fish!”

Fish?

Jim follows Harvey's gaze. A small figure has ghosted into the room; her hair is short, her skin dark and her smile sharp. “Harvey!” she greets him like an old friend, holding out her hands to him; he takes them and she steps close enough to give him a quick peck on the lips. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Her eyes rove and meet Jim's. “Oh, my, is this your partner?”

Jim can't shake the feeling that this woman is all sharp edges and danger wrapped in sweet smiles and kind words. “Detective Jim Gordon,” he says, holding out his hand.

She shakes it. “Fish Mooney,” she says, “I'm the owner of this club.”

“Nice to meet you, miss--”

“Fish. My friends call me Fish,” she says with a bright smile, and Jim manages to smile back.

“I'm afraid I'm here to ask you a favor,” Harvey says. “We're looking for a kid, maybe about 20—name's Fred Bodie.”

Her eyes and her smile widen. “I can tell you a few interesting things about Freddy,” she says, a lilting tone to her voice, “but first I'd just like to ask the tiniest of favors in return.”

Jim senses danger and something tells him to run. He stands his ground and Harvey speaks. “Of course!”

“It's nothing much, really,” she says, “just—something of mine's gone missing. If you see it, would you let me know? It's valuable. Very important to me, you know...”

“If it rolls across my desk I'll let you know. What is it we're keeping watch for?”

“A friend of mine,” she says. “A harpy.”

 

-

 

_No, please no, please no, please no..._

“What does he look like?” Harvey asks.

“Black and white wings, he's only a little taller than me. It's just, he's my constant companion,” she says, “usually holds my umbrella.”

_Don't ask his name,_ Jim thinks hard, wishing he could telepathically drill it into Harvey's head, _don't--_

“Jim, didn't you find a harpy recently?”

_That's worse._

Fish's eyes swivel and fix on Jim and Jim swallows hard. “Mine's blonde,” he lies through his teeth. “Think eagle wings.”

“Nice,” Harvey says appreciatively, and Fish stares at him a little longer before her eyes move back to Harvey. “Well, Fish, we'll let you know if we find your friend.”

“I appreciate it,” Fish says slowly, then shakes herself and smiles again. “Now, about Freddy.”

 

-

 

Oswald's made a nest out of blankets when Jim gets home. He's stolen the comforter from Jim's bed and the other blankets from the linen closet and a cushion from the couch and there's his nest, right there in front of the coffee table.

“Well, I'm glad you've made yourself comfortable,” Jim manages after he's done laughing. Oswald chirps and hops up from the nest, moving over to Jim; his talons click against the laminate floor and he wraps his good wing around Jim's back, guides him toward the nest of blankets. “Hey, hey! I can't lie down with you right now, Oswald, I've gotta take a shower and get changed out of this monkey suit, and--” He pauses, head tilting as he considers Oswald for a second. “You probably need a shower, huh? If you were really careful to keep that wing out of the water you probably could. Do you want to?”

Oswald nods. “Yesssss,” he speaks, the word coming out like a tiny, soft hiss. Jim grins.

“Great. Awesome. C'mon.”

He shows Oswald how his shower works and then leaves him there in the bathroom while he goes into his bedroom to get Oswald a change of clothes.

He quickly realizes that he has absolutely no shirts that will fit him. Those wings make shirts a little bit of a difficult proposition. Maybe if there was a series of snaps, or ties, or a zipper at the sleeves, maybe—but none of Jim's shirts fit that description. Oh, well. He fishes a soft pair of pajama pants out of his closet—they'll be too big on Oswald, but there's a drawstring, and he can always roll the cuffs up if he needs to. He brings the pants and a towel into the bathroom. Oswald is already in the shower, the curtain drawn—Jim sets the clothes on the countertop and quickly leaves.

Oh, god, What had he told Oswald? “I can't lie down with you right now,” he softly murmurs back to himself. Right now. Implying there would be a later.

_Congratulations, Jim,_ he thinks bitterly, _you just told the bird boy you'd cuddle with him in his freaky bird nest._

Oswald is in the shower for an interminable amount of time—half an hour, maybe? When he finally gets out and pads back into the living room he's got the towel slung over his shoulders and his shorts are on and his wings—and hair—are ridiculously, ridiculously fluffy.

“Oh my god,” Jim says, fighting back a laugh. “Um.”

Oswald squawks and shakes his head. _Don't make fun of me,_ is the message that Jim gets.

Jim expertly masks his laugh in a coughing fit and Oswald looks unconvinced. Jim heads off to the shower before he can catch a talon in the face.

 

-

 

When he next sees Oswald, Oswald is miserably attempting to preen his feathers. He's contorted up so he can try to comb through and manipulate his feathers with his talons and honestly it just doesn't look comfortable, fairly effective though it may be in the long run. Oswald un-pretzels himself at the sight of Jim, anyway. “Gordon!”

“You, uh...” Jim motions to his wing, the one that he'd been trying to put in place, “you need some help with that?”

Oswald's eyes widen.

“I mean, I'm not a bird. So I might just screw it up, or something,” he says, and Oswald still looks shocked, and Jim wonders if offering to help someone comb their feathers is, like, against harpy etiquette, or something. “I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have asked, I just--”

“Gordon!” Oswald says, a grin on his face; he still looks surprised but now his expression reads more _delight_ than _shock_. “Yes!”

“Yes? To the feathers thing?”

“Yes!” Oswald repeats. He pats the ground next to him before stretching out his good wing and looking up at Jim expectantly.

_Good job, Jim, now he wants you to sit in his weird bird nest. And groom his wings, or whatever. Nice work, buddy._

He does settle down on the ground a little behind Oswald; he eyes the whacked-out feathers and, nervously, his fingers hover a few inches away. After a few moments Oswald looks over his shoulder and makes a _well, get on with it_ kind of squeak, like _what's the hold-up,_ and Jim shakes himself before he finally reaches out and slides his fingers through those feathers, combing them back into place. Oswald positively purrs, his wing pressing back against Jim's hand. Jim works carefully and slowly and Oswald positively melts.

It's... okay, it's nice. Oswald's wings are soft and it's relaxing to methodically straighten each feather. He's about halfway through the job when his visit to that nightclub shoves its way into his thoughts. “Hey, Oswald,” he says, “can I ask you some more questions?”

“Yesssss,” Oswald sighs, shoulders rolling leisurely. “Yes, Gordon.”

“I went to a nightclub earlier,” he says, “met a lady called Fish Mooney.”

The name isn't completely out of his mouth before Oswald stills completely. His wings tremble just faintly and he says nothing.

“She said she's looking for a harpy. Is that your—is that the person who thought they owned you, Oswald?”

Oswald scrambles to turn around and meet Jim's eye and he speaks. “Yes.”

“Why is Fish looking for you?”

“I...” Oswald's voice cracks; he swallows and tries again. “I h-heard ssssecrets.”

It's the first time he's heard Oswald say more than one word at once, let alone a sentence. His voice sounds scratchy from disuse and Jim wonders if he just wasn't allowed to speak at all. He wonders if talking hurts him. “So she's afraid of what you can do with them?”

Oswald flashes a smile and for the first time Jim sees the wild animal that Oswald is, sees the potential for cruelty there; the smile is that of a predator and something dark glimmers behind his eyes. “Yes.” The expression is gone within a split second and Oswald is back to being every bit the soft little bird.

“Well, I won't let her have you. If she hurt you that bad she doesn't deserve you.” Jim reaches out once again, this time to smooth down the inner side of Oswald's wing. “Why did she hurt you? What happened?”

Oswald's eyes widen and he pastes on that confused look again, and Jim just stares at him. “You tried that once, it's not going to be any more successful now. And I know you know how to speak English now.”

“'S _hard_ ,” he whines, then adds an avian squawk for emphasis, and Jim can't even bring himself to dig further.

 

-

 

It takes Jim ten solid minutes of convincing Oswald to give him his comforter back before he finally wins.

 

-

 

Oswald keeps trying to move his injured wing around. It's enough so that Jim's been keeping a watchful eye on him, telling him to quit wiggling when he shifts his injured wing a little too much. Oswald glares at him every time, but mumbles his thanks nonetheless.

 

-

 

Jim's fallen into a comfortable routine with Oswald in the few days that he's been part of Jim's life. They watch movies together; sometimes Oswald cuddles up to Jim's side while Jim sits on the couch and does paperwork he should have done days ago and, every time Oswald gets out of the shower, Jim finger-combs his feathers back into place. Oswald's weird little bird nest is still in the living room and he still steals the comforter off Jim's bed but it's less of a struggle to get it back now.

Jim's getting used to him.

 

-

 

It's the seventh night Oswald's stayed with Jim and they're watching Return of the Jedi. Oswald's curled close and Jim's not exactly cuddling back but he's not shoving Oswald away, either, and it's nice. It's really nice. Jim's beginning to wonder if Oswald is asleep, but as the credits roll at the end of the movie Oswald slowly sits up and stares into space for a long moment.

“All right, time to pack it in,” Jim says, standing up and heading over to the DVD player to put the disc back in its case. “It's one in the morning.”

There's a moment of silence as Jim puts away the DVD and turns off the television, and then Oswald speaks. “Eggmother,” he says quietly.

Jim slides the DVD case back onto his shelf and turns around. “What?”

Oswald looks up at him and opens his mouth; he hesitates for a long moment and then shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says with a dismissive half-wave of his wing, and Jim doesn't press the issue.

“Okay, Oswald,” Jim says. “Good night.”

Oswald settles down into his nest, pulling blankets over himself; he looks expectantly up at Jim and pats the space next to him, gives a questioning chirp.

“What?” Jim blinks. Oh god. “No, no, I, um—I can't lie down with you. I can't sleep on the floor, it'll wreck my back. I don't know how you manage it.”

Yeah, like that's the only reason. Oswald is cute, and yeah, Jim's thought about spending the night next to him. But that's a line that shouldn't be crossed. Not now, not ever.

Oswald frowns and pokes at the myriad of stolen cushions from around the apartment. “Soft,” he protests.

Jim chuckles and shakes his head. “Goodnight, Oswald,” he says, and heads to his own room.

 

-

 

Jim finds himself looking forward to getting back home just so that he can be with Oswald again.

Jim's bought him shirts that fit. There's a boutique at the edge of town that specializes in harpy apparel and Oswald picked sleeveless dress shirts with snaps down the sides to accommodate his wings. Jim's bank account cries a little bit, probably, but he ignores its suffering entirely. Oswald's happy and he's wearing a weird little continental cross tie, but it makes him happy, so Jim's happy too, bank account woes or not.

Oswald's been watching television during the days and he's been practicing his speech and whenever he shows off his work to Jim, whenever he says new words or speaks for a little longer, he puffs up, obviously pleased with himself.

Sometimes when he smiles or when he tilts his head in that endearing way or looks shyly up at Jim through his lashes, Jim finds he's developed a pervasive, nagging urge to kiss him.

He doesn't. Instead he remembers that he must never, ever take advantage of Oswald; remembers that he is a wild animal; remembers that someday he will heal up and fly away and that will be that. As it should be.

But god, he's beautiful, and Jim's beginning to understand all the love songs written about harpies.

 

-

 

Jim wakes up one morning with a warm, soft body pressed up against his own. He's warm and sleepy and it takes him three solid minutes to wake up enough to bother wondering who exactly it is curled up in his bed with him. He blinks against the morning light, realizes that he feels soft feathers draped over the top of him. Feathers. Oh. Oh god, no.

It's Oswald. Oswald is in his bed. It's Oswald who's nosing sleepily against the crook of Jim's neck.

Internally Jim panics. At least Oswald is on top of the covers and Jim's under them; Oswald must have just moseyed on into his room in the middle of the night and curled up on the bed beside him. Jim pulls away carefully, sliding out from under Oswald's wing. He gets almost out of bed and then Oswald does finally wake up.

“Gordon?” he asks, voice groggy and rough with sleep; he blinks and rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist.

“Hi, Oswald,” he says, “good morning.”

In that moment Jim wants nothing more than to slide back into bed and wrap Oswald's soft body up in his arms. The thought terrifies him and he swallows hard before grabbing some clothes and disappearing into the bathroom to change into them.

God, he has to get a hold of himself. He rests his head against the inside of the bathroom door once it's closed him safely inside. Oswald wasn't trying anything. He was probably just lonely and needed company, during the night.

He hides in the bathroom until he hears Oswald get up and leave the bedroom; he hides in the bathroom because he's not sure what he'd do if he went into the bedroom and found Oswald still there.

 

\- 

 

At the three-week mark Jim takes Oswald back to see Lee.

“Looking good, Oswald,” she praises him, and his crest puffs up and he practically preens under the compliment. “Pretty sure we can get that cast off you--” Oswald squeaks with excitement, “--But only if you promise not to try flying on it for another week. Gently stretching it is fine but no flight yet. Understand?”

Oswald nods. “Understand! Yes, Doctor,” he says, enthusiasm pouring off his voice.

“See?” Lee says, looking over at Jim. “He's a talker.”

“He sure has gotten that way,” Jim agrees, leaning against the exam table as Doctor Thompkins slices the bandages from his wing. The splint falls to the table and Oswald carefully, gingerly stretches the wing out. He looks delighted, a bright smile on his face.

“Doesn't hurt!” he nearly shouts. “Thank you!”

“You obey the lady, though, buddy. No pushing it.” Jim ruffles Oswald's hair and crest feathers and Oswaldd affectionately pushes his head back up against Jim's hand.

Oswald can't stop moving his wing even as Jim's in the waiting room paying for the visit. His wingtips drag on the floor a bit; Oswald expresses discomfort every time he tries to fold the wing up too tight, but he's clearly overjoyed to be able to move it at all again. He sits in the front seat of the car and can't keep happy chirps out of his voice when he speaks the whole way home.

 

-

 

Oswald's in the shower and Jim's sitting on the couch and he can't stop thinking about what Lee said. In a week he'll be able to try flying. And Jim knows that if he's successful he'll leave, go off and—do whatever it is that harpies do, live in the woods or—or whatever—and leave him.

Of course that's what's supposed to happen, that's what Jim wants. Right? So why is his heart clenching uncomfortably whenever he thinks of Oswald spreading his wings and taking to the sky and never looking back?

God, he's going to miss him. He's going to miss Oswald so goddamn much.

He knows he should ask Oswald what he plans to do, where he wants to go. The thing is that he's terrified of the answer.

God, he's so fucked. He is fucked six ways to Sunday.

 

-

 

He finally _does_ bring himself to ask. The week's not even half over and he's taken Oswald to a park on the Gotham River to feed the ducks there. Oswald's sitting cross-legged on the concrete, cooing gently to the birds and feeding them morsels of dry corn; the birds seem to trust him offhand, and if Jim stays very still they'll wander close to him too. It's then that he asks, sitting next to Oswald and watching him carefully manipulate the bag of corn with his talons.

“So...” he begins. Oswald looks over at him, one eyebrow raised. His eyebrows are made up of tiny feathers, Jim notices. Huh. He smiles. How had he not noticed that before? “So—Oswald. After you're all healed up, what's... what's your plan?”

Oswald blinks.

“I mean, what're you going to do? There's a whole world out there. I can't say I know much about everyday harpy life, but... there's gotta be others like you out there.”

Understanding flashes over Oswald's face and his crest flattens against his head—he seems to shrink smaller. “You want me to leave?”

Jim mentally kicks himself. Oswald is visibly hurt and Jim shakes his head. “No! No, it's not that, you can stay as long as you want, it's just--”

“Good!” Oswald grins and chirps, his crest fluffing up again. Before Jim can say anything else, Oswald is setting the bag of corn down and standing up. “Stay,” he says, pointing at Jim with a wingtip, and Jim hasn't got time to ask what's going on before Oswald moseys off toward the shore of the river.

Jim just watches. He's down there a while, so Jim just takes a handful of corn and tries to befriend the ducks that are still gazing warily at him. “C'mon, I know I haven't got any feathers but I'm not gonna try to eat you or something,” he says, holding out his palm. The ducks look unconvinced.

Within minutes Oswald is back at his side and a small object falls into Jim's lap from Oswald's wrist talons. “What the...” Jim picks up the object. It's a rock, smooth and black and shiny, a perfect little oval. Oswald's already sitting back down next to Jim, looking very pleased with himself indeed. Jim quirks a smile, can't resist the hint of a laugh that creeps into his tone. “Thanks,” he says. The rock feels nice against his palm when he closes his fingers over it. A weird harpy thing, probably. Jim will never get used to it.

A few minutes pass; they sit next to each other in pleasant, companionable silence. A duck gets dangerously close to climbing in Oswald's lap and Jim laughs when Oswald squawks at another duck for tugging at his feathers. Oswald shoots him a dirty look and Jim bites his tongue to keep the laughter silent.

 

-

 

It's getting to be dusk by the time they end up back around at Jim's apartment. “Really, though,” Jim says, pulling his keys out of his pocket, “You can stay as long as you want, but—I want you to know that I'll help you. Find a place, get a job. If you want to stay in the city rather than...” He waves a hand noncommittally, “...do whatever it is that harpies normally do.”

Oswald stares up at Jim like Jim's grown an extra eyeball in the center of his face. “Gordon,” he says slowly, shaking his head; he lays his wrist over Jim's hand to still it. “Silly.” Oswald steps closer, right up into Jim's personal space. “I don't want to leave,” he says, and he's so close that Jim can make out his freckles, can make out that his eyelashes are tiny, downy feathers, and Jim isn't sure exactly what's happening until Oswald has stretched up and lightly touched his lips to Jim's.

Three things happen in Jim's mind all at once.

Something in Jim's brain rejoices and for a split second he wants nothing more than to kiss him back. Simultaneously a thrill of shock runs through him—what the fuck is happening? Thirdly, there is a jolt of horror: is Oswald kissing him because he's afraid of Jim throwing him out? Is Oswald trying to _pay_ for his spot on Jim's couch, or something?

It's that last thought that makes Jim pull away as if burned. He stares down at Oswald for a long second and Oswald just looks—terrified, wide-eyed and puzzled. “Oswald, no,” he says as gently as he can, “no, I—what made you think—I--” Have I been taking advantage of you? Oh, god. God, Christ, can Oswald even—could he even consent to—to something like that? Is this because this is how he's ingratiated himself to his owners before?

There's a space of about a second, and then Oswald just looks absolutely crushed. “What?” he asks, voice shaking, “you—you don't want me? Did you _ever?”_

Fuck.

God, yes, he does want Oswald, he's wanted him for weeks now but it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be right at all and where is this coming from, it's all so fast and—no, he didn't bring Oswald in because he wanted to fuck him, no, that's not why he's taking care of him, Oswald owes him nothing--”No,” he blurts out, because his brain is moving too fast and his lips can't keep up.

“But the--” Oswald is backing away from him, and there are actual tears gathering in his eyes, “the nest I made for you! We, we roosted together!” His crest is flattened against his head, his ear feathers quivering. “You accepted the stone, you-- _you preened my wings!”_

Jim blinks. “What? Oswald--”

He's scrambling further away and the last time Jim saw this it was in that filthy alley. Jim tries to approach him but Oswald just _hisses_ , baring his pointed teeth, and then suddenly he's spreading his wings.

“No! No, Lee said you couldn't--”

Too late. With one powerful movement Oswald is airborne and within seconds he is above the rooftops and the last thing Jim hears before he completely disappears from view is a pained, anguished shriek.

 

-

 

” _You don't want me?”_

The words keep replaying in Jim's head. Of all the things he'd been expecting it wasn't this, but—god. It makes sense. All this time and Oswald's been courting him in his weird harpy way. The rock in his pocket weighs him down. As far as Oswald's concerned, they've been dating, and Jim's been stringing him along. Playing with his feelings. Of course he's fucking angry, of course he's upset.

How could Jim have missed it?

He drives around the city all damn night, just looking for him. Leaves his apartment unlocked in case Oswald comes back. Yeah, it leaves him open for burglary, but he can't bring himself to give half a shit. He trawls through the streets, windows open, just hoping to hear or see any trace of Oswald, but he's disappeared.

The stone in his pocket just gets heavier as the night drags on.

 

-

 

By the time he drags himself into the police station the next morning, the stone in his pocket feels like a lead weight.

Harvey whistles the second he lays eyes on Jim. “Damn,” he says. “You look like shit. Isn't that the shirt you were wearing yesterday morning? You've got the same mustard stain on it.”

Jim just looks at him. “I am not in the mood for this right now, Harvey.”

“Bird trouble?”

Jim grits his teeth and repeats himself. “Harvey. I am not in the mood for this,” he says again, slower.

“ _Fine_. Fine,” Harvey says, both hands raised in surrender. Jim sits heavily down at his desk, eyes scanning the bullpen, taking in the morning's state of affairs. He can hardly think. All he can think about is Oswald, all he can hear is Oswald's happy chirps and squeaky words and all he can see is black-and-white feathers and--

Black-and-white feathers.

There is a clump of black-and-white feathers in one of the holding cells.

Jim's heart slams against his ribcage. “Harvey,” he half-shouts, standing up abruptly, “why are there feathers in that cell?”

Harvey looks over. “Calm down, Jimbo. Someone brought in a harpy this morning. His wing was all screwed up, and he kept saying the same thing over and over ag--”

“ _What did you do with him?!”_ Jim full-shouts this time, fear lancing through his veins as he moves toward Harvey so fast he knocks over a chair in his haste, “that was Oswald, those were his feathers, he went flying last night and I couldn't find him, what did you do with him?!”

“You said your bird was blonde!” Harvey protests, voice reaching pitches it normally doesn't.

“I lied because we were _right in front of Fish Mooney!”_

“Oh, shit,” Harvey swears, the color draining from his face, “we took him back to Fish Mooney's this morning, early. As soon as he was dragged in. He fought a little but his wing was so fucked that he really couldn't. I'm—I'm sorry, Jim, if I'd have known--”

Jim's already halfway to the doors.

“Where are you going?!”

“I _'m going to get him!”_

 

-

 

About halfway through the drive to Fish's club, Jim realizes that he can't walk in guns blazing. He says essentially that to Harvey who is in the passenger seat.

“No shit, I was wondering when you'd realize that.” Harvey looks sideways at him. “So now that you're a little more level-headed, what's the actual plan, genius?”

Jim slams on the wheel. “I don't know! We bust her for harpy abuse? She shouldn't be keeping one at all. I--”

“Uh-huh. So you're going to arrest Falcone's lapdog? How's that going to go for you?”

“Look, I haven't exactly thought this through yet!”

“Maybe asking nicely will work,” Harvey muses, “they say that 'please' is the magic word.” A pause. “Look, Jimbo, sometimes you gotta know when to throw in the towel.”

“Harvey, I'm not leaving him there,” Jim insists, “I can't. If you want to bail, fine, but I'm going to get Oswald and there is exactly fuck-all you can do to stop me. If I get unpopular with Falcone, so be it.”

“Holy shit,” Harvey breathes, incredulous. “You really do love the little bird, don't you.”

Jim swallows hard. “Yeah. I do.” He pulls up to a stop outside Fish's club. There's a long pause. “I'm still not sure what the plan is.”

“Yeah, me neither. I guess we play it by ear,” Harvey says on a shrug. “What could go wrong. Well, we could get shot, but other than that, nothing, right?”

“Thank you,” Jim says, and unlocks the car doors. “One last thing,” he says, “what—what was that word that Oswald was repeating? When he was in the cell?”

“Oh.” Harvey chews his lip. “It was weird. He kept saying _eggmother.”_

 

-

 

Jim and Harvey burst into the club like a hurricane and find the place empty. “Fuck,” Jim swears. There's nobody here, not so much as a bartender or a straggling customer.

“Not unusual for ten AM, Jim. They could still be here. You check the back rooms, I'll look in the alley and kitchen.”

Jim obeys instantly, darting upstairs and into the office and other backstage areas. Mooney is nowhere to be found, and there isn't a trace of Oswald—or anyone else. “Harvey!” Jim shouts, taking the stairs two at a time back into the main area of the club. “We're too late! They're gone!”

“Not too late.” Harvey's got a scrawny kitchen boy by the collar, dragging the stumbling kid toward the bar. “There's no blood anywhere in the building and my friend Rob here didn't hear anything. He's not dead yet, at least.”

“Does he know where Mooney took Oswald?”

“The pier!” the boy shouts, voice shaking, “the pier over the Gotham River, by the fishing district! Now please, let me go!”

“The pier—fuck! Harvey, drop the kid, we have to leave now!” Fear jolts through Jim's system, blurring his vision. The boy looks like he's about to burst into tears.

“Go home to your mother,” Harvey says roughly, dropping the boy before chasing Jim back to the car.

 

-

 

Traffic laws are mere suggestions to Jim Gordon in that moment. “Her computer hadn't even gone to sleep yet,” he says as he blows straight through a red light, earning at least four different angry honks from other drivers. “She can't have been gone long!”

Harvey's clinging to the small handle above the passenger side door but doesn't comment on Jim's driving. “Kid said she'd just left with the bird,” he agrees.

Jim makes an illegal right turn. More honking ensues. Jim doesn't even spare the extra energy to extend a middle finger to any of them. He considers turning on his sirens and lights but that'd just alert Fish to their presence when they actually did get to the pier, and she might be tempted to do the job faster.

He throws the car into park and flings himself from the vehicle, hurtling down toward the pier at top speed, as fast as his legs can carry him. He can see them down at the edge; can see Mooney and just make out Oswald's shivering silhouette. There's two other men too, some goons of hers, big and burly.

Mooney's got a gun to Oswald's head.

Harvey's right behind him and Jim does the only thing he knows to do. “GCPD!” he shouts. “Drop the weapon!” The goons turn first and there's suddenly a couple of very large guns pointed at Jim and Harvey and they have their own pistols out but--

“Oh, isn't this lovely,” Mooney says lightly, turning around. “Please, stop pointing those peashooters at me, gentlemen. I'd hate to have to clean you up from the boardwalk.”

Fuck. Jim lowers his gun—he can only assume Harvey does as well---but doesn't drop it. Amiably, Mooney also lowers hers. It's a show. The two large men don't bother with such niceties. “Now, gentlemen, how can I help you?” she asks.

Jim takes in the sight of Oswald behind her. His wing is held crookedly again, re-broken to be sure. His wrist talons are nearly gone, clipped down to the quick. He's hobbling on feet that have been cable-tied shut. He's missing several flight feathers and there is dry blood at his temple. “Gordon!” Oswald cries. “Go!”

Mooney turns long enough to slam the heel of her palm against Oswald's broken wing. Oswald screams and doubles over, wings trembling, and Jim shouts. “Don't _touch_ him! We're confiscating that harpy, Mooney, you've been keeping him illegally!”

“We're outgunned, Jim,” Harvey hisses out between his teeth. “There's no way to win this one.”

“I'm afraid he can't be set free, Detective. He's been domestic all his life, Don Falcone gave him to me as a fledgling. He wouldn't have any idea how to survive in the wild."

“I'll find a place for him. Mooney, there's no reason for this,” Jim says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Mooney actually looks regretful. “Oh, I wish that were so. I really do. But you see, Detective Gordon, Oswald's been my constant companion for years. He's heard things. I can't just let him go, who knows what he'd share, what trade secrets he'd spill?” She sighs. “And he can't be kept. Do you know what this little bird is capable of, Detective?” Oswald looks terrified behind her, meeting Jim's eyes for a split second before looking down as Mooney speaks. “He killed three of my men when he escaped from me. Gutted them open, spilled out their intestines on the ground. He's violent. Can't keep him, can't let him go. You see how it is.”

There's a tiny, faint cracking sound. Mooney pauses, and Jim realizes that he's shaking. “If you kill him, Mooney, I swear to God I will never stop hunting you down,” he grinds out, and Harvey hisses something at him, a warning, maybe, but Jim's too far gone to hear it. “I'll--”

“Gentlemen,” Mooney sighs, and the her two very large men advance on Jim and Harvey, and--

\--and then Oswald's wormed his talons free from one of the cable ties and Jim realizes _he broke his own foot to get free_ , that was the cracking noise; Oswald lets out an enraged noise, a piercing shriek, and sinks his talons into Mooney's side. Razor-sharp claws slide into her flesh, rending her stomach and she screams, the gun falling from her hands as in one powerful movement Oswald wrenches her to the side; with a strong flap of his wings he's pushed her, bleeding, into the river.

It happened so fast, explosively so, Oswald moved as quick as lightning and there's blood dripping from his talons by the time Jim even processes what happened. The two henchmen whirl around to face Oswald but it's too late for them. They point their weapons at him but Jim and Harvey are quicker and slam them with bullets of their own and they fall to the ground, instantly, gone before they hit the pier.

Harvey's pulling his phone out of his pocket and Oswald is standing there, shaking, eyes glazed over and wings trembling, standing on one tied foot because his broken one is the one he used to kill Mooney, and Jim is at his side in a heartbeat, pulling him into his arms and holding him tight.

“Gordon?” Oswald says, dazed, and Jim lets out a hysterical sort of laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, I'm never letting you go again, you hear me?”

“ _Gordon?”_ Oswald asks again, and when he pulls back to look Jim in the eyes he looks nervous. “But—you--”

“I was _stupid_ ,” Jim says, cupping Oswald's face, running his hands over his hair and crest and feathered ears. “I was stupid, I love you,” Jim can feel Oswald shaking even harder, can see his eyes widen in shock, “I love you, Oswald, I was scared and I--”

“Jim!” Harvey's voice breaks through and Jim looks over to him. “Help me toss these assholes in the river. If they wash up there'll be nothing to tie them to us. You opposed to committing a little perjury if there's any questions asked?”

“A little perjury never hurt anyone,” Jim jokes weakly, and he feels Oswald give a faint laugh.

 

-

 

Jim's got to carry Oswald through his front door because his foot is in a cast and his wing is splinted all over again; he's never been more grateful to Lee, who asked no questions after Jim shot her a pleading glance.

Jim carefully sets Oswald on the couch, turns around to close the front door again and it's the first time they've been alone all day, Harvey drove them around because Jim was with Oswald in the back seat of the car the whole way to the vet and to the station and to Jim's apartment, unwilling to part from him.

Oswald's nest is still made up on the floor. When Jim looks back he can see Oswald eyeing it. Jim crosses the room and settles down on his knees before Oswald, looks up at him. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs, for the hundredth time, probably.

“You... meant it?” Oswald asks quietly. “At the pier?”

“Yes,” Jim says. “I—here.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the tiny, smooth object there. He holds out his palm and Oswald's eyes widen as he looks down at it.

“You kept it,” Oswald says, a smile stealing across his lips.

“And you saved my life today.”

Soft feathers brush against Jim's side. Oswald's wrapping his good wing around Jim. “Silly,” he says, then carefully, slowly, he leans down and rests his forehead against Jim's. Jim nudges up against Oswald, eyes slipping shut. “My mate,” Oswald says tentatively, hesitantly, almost a question.

“Yes,” Jim murmurs, slipping the rock back into his pocket.

“My Gordon,” Oswald purrs, and Jim reaches up, fingertips brushing Oswald's jaw. His wing tightens around him, pulling him closer, and then he tips his head just enough to brush his lips against Jim's.

It's a soft, sweet sort of kiss. It feels like relief. It feels like home.

Part of him is still goddamn terrified and part of him is still questioning his morality but he makes the executive decision to rethink his life decisions later. It's not like he's going to take advantage of Oswald—he never would, it's not as if he's going to give in and screw Oswald's brains out. It's not like anything's happening that isn't Oswald's idea. Jim comforts himself with that notion, and he kisses Oswald back.

 

-

 

There's going to be hoops to jump through, Jim knows that.

He has no idea what's going to happen when Falcone discovers that Mooney is dead and her harpy is missing. Right now the plan is to lie low and take things one day at a time.

Jim's willing to take on anything to protect Oswald.

 

-

 

Jim's curled up next to Oswald in that living-room nest. Jim didn't fight him to get his comforter back this time, just decided to roll with it and sleep there next to him. And Oswald had been right, it _was_ pretty soft.

Oswald is settled neatly under Jim's chin, a wing flung over him, blanketing him as best as he can. “Oswald?” Jim asks, stroking the long feathers of Oswald's crest.

Oswald gives a sleepy, questioning chirp in response.

“You said something once. 'Eggmother,' I think it was? And—just, Mooney said that Falcone gave you to her as a fledgling. So--”

Oswald sighs. “Eggmother, I...” A pause. “I escaped Mooney. To find eggmother. I haven't seen her since I grew my flightfeathers.”

_Jesus_. “Did Falcone keep your mom?”

“I think. Only Mooney knows now, other than Falcone.” A wince. “Knew. Heard her... talk about eggmother. Decided to leave. Find her.” He can feel a huff of breath against his collarbone. “Left. You know the rest.”

Only Mooney knew. And Oswald killed her to save Jim's life. “We'll find her,” Jim says. “I swear. We will.”

“Pretty lucky I landed with a detective,” Oswald says, and Jim can feel his smile.

“What was her name?”

Oswald makes a noise; four separate musical notes, a short sound like birdsong.

“Well, that's... gonna be a little hard to translate, but we can work with it,” Jim says. “We'll find her, Oz.”

Oswald pulls Jim closer.

 

-

 

Eventually, the weird bird nest moves to Jim's bed.

All in all, a massive improvement to his bedroom decor.

 

**Author's Note:**

> well, that happened. it is five in the morning. i am not in control of my actions


End file.
